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PAWNS 

FOUR  POETIC   PLAYS 

BY 
JOHN  DRINKWATER 

Author  of  "Abraham  Lincoln:  A  Play  " 
"Poems:  1908-1919,"  etc. 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

JACK  R.  CRAWFORD 

Assistant  Professor  of  English 
in  Yale  University 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK    \Y[  QA.  *J  " 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Cfte  fitoerjjibe  press  Cambnbge 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,    I9»,    BY   HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


• 

It-    »i 


INTRODUCTION 

THESE  four  plays  are  characteristic  of  John 
Drinkwater's  point  of  view.  The  sum  of  the 
world's  beauty  is  a  great  majority  of  the  total. 
If  we  choose  deliberately  to  live  with  the 
minority  of  ugliness,  we  alone  are  to  blame. 
Beauty,  peace,  and  quiet  may  belong  to  our 
lives  if  we  desire  them  as  much  as  we  seem  to 
desire  more  ugly  things.  The  so-called  practi- 
cal man  may  object  that  Drinkwater's  vision 
is  a  poet's  vision.  Life  leaves  us  little  time  for 
beauty.  We  need  poets  to  puncture  the  fallacy 
of  so  absurd  an  argument.  All  beauty  asks  of 
any  one,  poet  or  business  man  alike,  is  that  it 
be  not  ignored.  You  will  not  see  it  if  you  turn 
your  back;  it  is,  however,  always  there  to  see 
whenever  you  desire  to  make  the  effort.  Noth- 
ing can  hide  it  from  our  eyes  but  our  own 
neglect. 

As  for  peace  and  quiet,  they  are  the  natural 
concomitants  of  a  mind  loving  beauty.  If  you 
carry  the  true  vision  about  with  you  there  is 
little  danger  that  you  will  mar  it  with  strife 
or  unrest.  Thus  it  follows  that  Drinkwater's 

iii 


INTRODUCTION 

point  of  view,  like  that  of  all  real  poets,  is  both 
sane  and  practical.  It  is  sane  because  he  is  of 
those  who  urge  us  to  live  on  decent,  friendly 
terms  with  our  neighbors;  it  is  practical  be- 
cause only  by  so  living  may  we  have  any  hope 
of  happiness.  The  upholders  of  the  theory 
that  life  is  a  competitive  struggle  are  the  un- 
practical men.  It  is  they  who  are  the  bringers 
of  war  to  the  nations  and  the  occasions  of 
strife  at  home.  They  have  turned  their  backs 
upon  beauty  and  set  up  altars  to  the  false  gods 
of  practical  affairs. 

X  =>  0  is  the  most  deeply  moving  of  these 
four  plays,  for  it  deals  dramatically  with  the 
greatest  of  all  evils  —  war.  We  need  only  to 
remember  war  as  death  stealing  out  of  the  dark- 
ness to  strike  down  youth,  to  whom  the  vision 
of  beauty  is  a  natural  dream,  to  realize  war's 
horror.  We  then  know  war  as  the  negation  of 
truth.  This  play,  furthermore,  touches  our 
emotions  deeply  because  it  is  itself  wrought 
out  of  deep  emotion.  Through  the  drama  we 
see  the  ugly  fact  as  it  is  and  we  come  to  hate  it 
for  its  ugliness. 

In  like  manner  The  God  of  Quiet  reminds  us 
that  we  often  forego  one  essential  of  living. 
If  men  are  to  think  and  to  do  things  —  and 
they  can  do  things  only  if  they  think  —  they 
must  have  the  leisure  that  quiet  brings.  And, 

iv 


INTRODUCTION 

like  beauty,  quiet  may  be  found  within.  The 
world's  uproar  need  not  disturb  the  contem- 
plative mind. 

It  is  straining  too  far,  perhaps,  to  interpret 
King  Cophetua  as  a  treatise  upon  democracy. 
John  Drinkwater  is,  after  all,  a  poet  showing 
us  his  image  of  life  in  terms  of  beauty.  We 
must  beware  of  criticism  which  seeks  to  turn 
poetry  into  propaganda.  It  is  a  typical  Anglo- 
Saxon  failing  to  look  upon  our  artists  as 
preachers  in  disguise.  But  like  all  writers  who 
are  sincere,  Drinkwater's  attitude  toward  life 
shows  through  his  work.  We  are  therefore 
justified  in  making  note  of  King  Cophetua's 
dislike  of  advice  which  has  expediency  for  its 
motive.  It  is  enough  to  observe  that  the  king 
chooses  the  beggar  maid  because  she  embodies 
an  ideal  with  which  her  position  in  the  world's 
opinion  has  nothing  to  do. 

Neither  readers  nor  audience  need,  however, 
to  go  searching  beneath  the  surface  of  these 
plays.  They  are  dramas  expressed  in  poetry 

—  the  utterance  of  simple  truths  which  we 
know  beforehand,  for  of  such  are  the  mate- 
rials of  poetry  and  drama.  We  may  read  or  see 

—  and  take  pleasure  thereby.    That  is  what 
the  author  would  wish  to  have  us  do. 

JACK  R.  CRAWFORD 


CONTENTS 

THE  STORM  i 

THE  GOD  OF  QUIET  23 

X  -  0:  A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR  47 

COPHETUA  67 

APPENDIX 


THE  STORM 
(I9IS) 


TO 

BARRY  V.  JACKSON 


THE  CHARACTERS  ARE 

ALICE 

JOAN,  her  young  SisUr 

SARAH 

AN  OLD  MAN 

A  YOUNG  STRANGER 


THE  STORM 


A  mountain  cottage,  li  is  a  midwinter  night.  Out' 
side  a  snowstorm  rages. 

ALICE  is  looking  out  through  the  window.  JOAN, 
her  young  sister,  and  SARAH,  an  old  neigh- 
bour woman,  are  sitting  over  the  fire. 

Alice:  It  is  n't  fair  of  God.  Eyes  are  no  good, 
Nor  lanterns,  in  a  blackness  like  to  that. 
How  can  they  find  him  out  ?  It  is  n't  fair. 
Sarah:  God  is  for  prayers.  You  '11  anger  Him 

speaking  so. 
Alice:  I  have  prayed  these  hours,  and  now 

I  'm  tired  of  it. 
He  is  caught  in  some  grip  of  the  rocks,  and  cry- 

ing out, 
And  crying  and  crying,  and  none  can  hear  him 

cry, 

Because  of  this  great  beastliness  of  noise. 
Sarah:  Past  crying  now,  I  think. 
Joan:  There,  take  no  heed 

Of  what  she  says  —  it's  a  rusty  mind  she  has, 
Being  old,  and  wizened  with  bad  luck  on  the 

hills. 

Sarah:  Rusty  or  no,   I've  a  thought  the 
man  is  dead. 


PAWNS 

No  news  has  been  growing  apace  from  nightfall 

on 
Into  bad  news,  and  now  it's  as  though  one 

stood 
At  the  door  and  said,  "  We  found  him  lying 

cold." 
Alice:  Whist !  you  old  bitter  woman.  Will  it 

never  stay 
In  its  wicked  fury?  .  .  .  and  the  snow's  like  a 

black  rain 
Whipping  the  crying  wind.  If  it  would  rest 

awhile 

I  could  think  and  mind  me  what  were  best  to  do 
To  help  my  man.  But  a  savagery  like  this 
Beats  at  the  wits  till  they  have  no  tidiness. 
Sarah:  We  '11  sit  and  wait  till  they  come. 
Alice:  And  I  a  woman 

Would  never  let  him  ask  for  anything, 
Because  of  the  daily  thought  I  took  for  him,  — 
And  against  this  spite  now  I  've  no  strength  at 

all. 
Sarah:  For  all  you  would  bake  his  bread  to  a 

proper  turn 
And  remember  always  the  day  for  his  clean 

shift, 

There  was  many  a  scolding  word  for  him  to  bear. 
Joan:  Hush  — 

Alice:  Let  her  talk.  What  does  she  know  at 
all,— 

6 


THE  STORM 

Thinking  .crossed  words  between  a  man  and 

a  woman 

Have  anything  to  do  with  the  heart?  We  have, 
My  man  and  I,  more  than  a  fretful  mood 
Can  thieve  or  touch.  My  man  —  I  must  go  my- 
self. 

Joan:  There  is  nothing  you  could  do. 

Sarah:  'T  is  men 

Should  carry  the  dead  man  in. 

Alice:  My  man 

Is  alive,  I  say  —  surely  my  man's  not  dead  — 
Surely,  I  say  —  old  woman,  your  croaking  talk 
Teases  my  brain  like  the  pestilence  out  there 
Till  I  doubt  the  thing  I  know.  There's  not  a 

crag 

Or  cleft  in  the  hills  but  is  natural  to  him 
As  the  stairs  beyond  the  door  there  —  surely, 

surely  — 
Yet  nothing  is  sure. 

Sarah:  Death  has  a  way  with  him, 

A  confident  way. 

Alice:          You  know  that  he's  not  dead  — 
I  know  that  too  —  if  only  that  dark  rage 
Howling  out  there  would  leave  tormenting  me, 
And  let  me  reason  it  out  in  peace  a  little, 
I  could  be  quite,  quite  sure  that  he's  not  dead. 

Sarah:  Age  is  a  quiet  place  where  you  can 

watch 
The  world  bent  with  its  pain  and  still  be  patient, 

7 


PAWNS 

And  warm  your  hands  by  the  fire  because  you 

know 
That  the  newest  sorrow  and  the  oldest  sorrow 

are  one. 
They  will  bring  him  and  put  him  down  upon 

the  floor: 
Be  ready  for  that,  girl.  There  are  times  when 

hope  is  cruel 

As  a  fancy-man  that  goes  without  good-bye. 
Alice:  I  have  a  brain  that  is  known  in  three 

shire-towns 
For  a  level  bargain.  It  is  strange  that  I  should 

be 

Listening  now  to  a  cracked  old  woman's  clatter 
When  my  own  thoughts  for  him  should  be  so 

clear 
That  I  should  n't  heed  the  words  of  another 

body. 

I  want  no  hope  —  only  an  easy  space 
To  remember  the  skill  of  my  man  among  the 

hills 
And  how  he  would  surely  match  their  cunning 

with  his, 

Or  else  to  count  the  hours  that  he's  been  gone 
And   see  that  his  chance  is   whittled  quite 

away. 

To  have  a  living  thought  against  this  fear 
Is  all  I  want  —  but  those  screaming  devils 

there 

8 


THE  STORM 

Beat  in  my  mind  like  the  drums  in  Carnarvon 

streets 
That  they  use  when  they  want  to  cheat  folk 

into  thinking 

That  death  is  a  handsome  trade.  —  And  so 
I  let  a  woman  with  none  but  leaky  wits 
Tell  me  the  way  I  should  be,  —  when  most  I 

need 
To  ride  no  borrowed  sense. 

Sarah:  It  is  not  wind, 

For  all  it  is  louder  than  any  flood  on  the  hills, 
Nor  the  crazy  snow  that  maddens  you  till  your 

brain 

Is  like  three  cats  howling  upon  a  wall, 
But  the  darkness  that  comes  creeping  on  a 

woman 

When  she  knows  of  grief  before  it  is  spoken  out, 
And  the  sooner  grieved  is  grief  the  sooner  gone. 
Be  ready  to  make  him  decent  for  the  grave. , 
Joan:  If  he  should  walk  in  now  you  will  not 

forget 
The  trouble  you  are  putting  in  the  house  with 

your  talk. 

Sarah:  The  trouble  is  here. 
Alice:  If  he  should  walk  in  now  — 

Yes,  that's  the  way  to  think.  I'll  work  it  out, 
Slowly,  his  doings  from  when  he  left  the  door 
Until  he  conies  again.  You  stood  at  the  oven 
With  cakes  half-browned  against  his  tea.  And  I 


PAWNS 

Stood  here  beside  my  man  and  strapped  his 

coat 

Under  his  chin.  He  looked  across  your  way  — 
He  is  fond  of  you,  child  —  he  calls  you  Father 

Joan 

Because  —  but  that's  not  it  —  I  told  him  then 
To-morrow  would  be  time  to  bring  the  slates, 
And  let  him  only  mend  the  wire  to-day  — 
He  thought  so  too  and  said  —  it  is  like  a  beast 
Greater  than  half  the  world  and  crushed  in  a 

trap, 
Shrieking   against   the   pain  —  what   did   he 

say  ?  — 

I  have  forgotten,  and  I  had  begun 
To  follow  it  all  quite  clearly — what  did  he 

say? 
Joan:  That  an  hour  would  bring  him  back, 

and  hungry  too. 
Alice:  An  hour  would  bring  him  back  —  but 

that  is  nothing. 

I  know  it  now:  he  went  to  the  broken  wire 
And  mended  it  —  three-quarters  of  an  hour  — 
And  then  he  would  think  that  after  all  the  slates 
Were  best  bespoken  now  —  six  miles  to  go; 
He  would  be  about  a  mile  when  this  began  -— 
This  wrath  that  will  surely  last  till  the  Judg- 
ment Day  — 
And  that  would  make  two  hours  till  he  reached 

the  quarry  — 

IO 


THE  STORM 

But  he  went  on,  and  the  neighbours  up  and 

down 
Were  scared  and  went  out  searching  with  their 

lanterns, 

Like  lighted  gnats  searching  the  mines  of  hell. 
Is  n't  it  queer  to  see  them  out  there  dancing 
When  all  the  time  he  has  gone  a  twelve-mile 

journey  — 

And  then  this  old  woman  came  with  her  neigh- 
bour duty  — 
It's  odd  folk  are  — 

Sarah:          It's  a  poor  thing,  spinning  tales 
When  there's  no  faith  in  them. 

Alice:  Hush,  I  have  it  all 

Quite  clearly  now,  in  spite  of  that  monster 

baying,  — 

Two  hours  to  the  quarry,  hindered  by  the  night, 
Then  half  an  hour  to  bargain,  then  two  hours 
For  beating  back,  his  boots  heavy  with  snow, 
Or  a  little  longer  —  five  hours  and  more  all 

told  — 

It  is  nine  o'clock  —  he  went  five  hours  ago, 
Or  a  little  more,  so  that's  just  how  it  works  — 
He  should  be  coming  now  along  the  road, 
Tired  —  we  must  warm  the  cakes  again. 

Sarah:  Aye,  warm  them, 

A  dead  man's  heavy  bearing. 

The  clock  strikes  nine. 
Alice:  That's  the  time 

II 


PAWNS 

To  bring  him  back,  and  we'll  call  the  lanterns 

in  — 
He  must  be  near  by  now  — 

A  man  is  heard  outside,  kicking  the 
snow  off  his  boots.  ALICE  opens  the 
door,  and  an  OLD  MAN  comes  in, 
carrying  an  unlit  lantern. 
The  Old  Man:  My  candle  is  spent. 

JOAN  takes  the  lantern  and  fits  a  new 

candle  while  they  speak. 
Alice:  And  you  are  going  out  again  ? 

They  have  not  found  him? 

The  Old  Man:  No.  It's  not  easy  there. 

Alice:  Then  he  did  n't  go  to  the  quarry  after 

all. 
Joan:  Because  they  haven't  found  him? 

That's  no  sign. 
They  could  n't  if  he  went. 

Alice:  Ah,  yes  —  how  is  it?  — 

He  went,  and  they've  been  looking  on  the 

hills— 
But  have  not  found  him.  Yes  —  he  must  have 

gone. 
He  should  be  back.  You  should  have  found  him 

for  me. 
Sarah:  She  is  strange  because  of  the  trouble 

in  the  house. 

I  am  old,  and  that  is  something. 
Alice:  It  is  not  that  — 

12 


THE  STORM 

I  am  caught  away  from  myself  by  the  scream- 
ing thing 

That  scourges  the  hills.  And  yet  in  spite  of  that 
I  had  reckoned  all  his  doings  since  he  went 
Until  his  time  for  coming  —  but  you  came  — 
You  came  instead.  That  is  not  right. 

The  Old  Man.  {taking  the  lantern  and  lighting 
if):  We '11  send 

Across  to  the  quarry  now  — 

Alice:  It  is  no  use  — 

He'll  not  have  gone. 

The  Old  Man:       The  night  is  full  of  tricks, 
But  another  hour  will  have  ferreted  all  the  hill. 

He  goes  out. 
Sarah:  Simon,  who  took  his  money  down  to 

market, 
And  would  n't  change  for  a  good  sound  fact  of 

cattle, 

Fingered  his  earnings  till  a  hole  was  worn 
And  came  to  the  house  again  with  an  empty 

bag. 
Leave  making   tales,  my  girl,   poor  tales  — 

they  bring  no  profit, 

Keeping  the  truth  outside,  and  breaking  away 
To  a  thimbleful  of  ash  themselves.  He  is  dead. 
Think  hard  on  that.  When  the  old  king  of  the 

world 

With  the  scourge  and  flail  turns  his  strokes 
from  the  wheat 

13 


PAWNS 

On  the  goodman's  floor  and  scars  the  goodman's 

back, 

It  is  no  time  to  wince.  Your  man  is  dead. 
And  a  day  and  a  day  make  Adam's  fall  a  story. 
Alice:  Not  down  to  the  quarry  —  then  —  my 

little  Joan, 
Do  you  know  at  all  what  a  man  becomes  to  a 

woman  ? 

How  should  you  though  ?  If  a  man  should  take 
A  patch  of  the  barren  hill  and  dig  with  his 

hands, 
And  down  and  down  till  he  came  to  marble  and 

gold,  !. 

And  labouring  then  for  a  dozen  years  or  twenty 
Should  build  a  place  finer  than  Solomon's  hall 
Till  strangers  with  money  to  travel  came  to 

praise  it, 
And,  when  he  had  dug  and  hewn  and  spent  his 

years 

To  make  it  a  wonder,  should  go,  and  be  re- 
membered 

No  more  than  an  onion-pedlar  in  the  street 
By  the  gaping  travellers,  yet  he  might  be  glad, 
If  his  heart  was  as  big  as  a  woman's,  for  the 

thing  he'd  made, 

The  strong  and  lovely  thing,  knowing  it  risen 
Out  of  his  thought  into  the  talk  of  the  world. 
That's  how  it  is.  A  woman  takes  a  mate; 
And  like  the  patient  builder  governs  him 

14 


THE  STORM 

Into  the  goodman  known  through  a  country- 
side, 
Or  the  wise  friend  that  the  neighbours  will  seek 

out, 

And  he,  for  all  his  love,  may  never  know 
How  she  has  nourished  the  dear  fine  mastery 
That  bids  him  daily  down  the  busy  road 
And  leaves  her  by  the  hearth.  And  when  he  is 

dead 
It  comes  to  her  that  the  strength  she  has  given 

him 

To  make  him  a  gallant  figure  among  them  all 
Has  been  the  thing  that  has  filled  her,  and  she 

lonely 

Or  gossiping  with  the  folk,  or  about  the  house. 
Sarah:  When  he  is  dead. 
Alice:  Why  should  I  think  of  that? 

I  am  crazed,  I  say,  because  of  the  madness 

loosed 

And  beating  against  the  panes.  He  is  not  dead — 
You  know  it,  woman  —  Joan,  it  would  be  a  lie 
To  say  my  man  was  dead  ? 

Joan:  There,  sister,  wait  — 

It  is  all  we  can  do  —  there  is  nothing  else  to 

do. 
Sarah:  When  he  is  dead.  Let  the  thought 

that  comes  unbidden 
Be  welcome,  for  it's  the  best  thought.   When 

he  is  dead. 

15 


PAWNS 

Alice:  There  is  treachery  against  us  —  my 

man  —  my  dear  — 
My  brave  love  —  they  are  trying  to  part  us 

now! 

But  we  must  be  too  strong  when  .  .  .  when  he 
is  dead.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  makes 

a  half  movement  towards  it. 
He  would  not  knock.  See  who  it  is. 

JOAN  opens  the  door  and  a  YOUNG 
TRAVELLER,  buffeted  and  breathless, 
conies  in. 

The  Stranger:  By  Thor! 

There's  beauty  trampling  men  like  crumpled 

leaves. 
May  I  come  in  till  it's  gone? 

Joan:  Surely. 

The  Stranger:  I  set 

Every  sinew  taut  against  this  power, 
This  supple  torrent  of  might  that  suddenly 

rose 

Out  of  the  fallen  dusk  and  sang  and  leapt 
Like  an  athlete  of  the  gods  frenzied  with  wine. 
It  seemed  to  rear  challenging  against  me, 
As  though  the  master  from  Valhalla's  tables, 
Grown  heady  in  his  revels,  had  cried  out  — 
Behold  me  now  crashing  across  the  earth 
To  shake  the  colonies  of  antic  men 
Into  a  fear  shall  be  a  jest,  my  fellows! 

16 


THE  STORM 

And  I  measured  myself  against  this  bragging 

pride, 

Climbing  step  by  step  through  the  blinding  riot 
Of  frozen  flakes  swung  on  the  cataract  wind, 
My  veins  praising  the  tyranny  that  was  matched 
Against  this  poor  ambitious  body  of  mine. 
Alice:  The  storm  is  drenched  with  treachery 

and  sin  — 
It  is  not  good  to  praise  it. 

The  Stranger:  You  on  the  hills 

Grow  dulled,  maybe,  to  the  royalty  that  finds 
In  your  crooked  world  a  thousand  splendid 

hours, 

And  a  storm  to%you  is  but  a  hindered  task 
Or  a  wall  for  mending  or  a  gap  in  the  flock. 
But  I  was  strange  among  this  gaiety 
Plying  black  looms  in  a  black  firmament, 
This  joy  that  was  spilt  out  of  the  iron  heavens 
Where  pity  is  not  bidden  to  the  hearts 
Of  the  immaculate  gods.  I  was  a  dream, 
A  cold  monotony  suddenly  thrust 
Into  a  waking  world  of  lusty  change, 
A  wizened  death  elected  from  the  waste 
To  strive  and  mate  with  eager  lords  of  tumult. 
Beauty  was  winged  about  me,  darkling  speed 
Took  pressure  of  earth  and  smote  against  my 

face; 

I  rode  upon  the  front  of  heroic  hours, 
And  once  was  on  the  crest  of  the  world's  tide, 


PAWNS 

Unseared  as  the  elements.  —  But  he  mastered 

me, 

That  god  striking  a  star  for  holiday, 
And  filled  himself  with  great  barbaric  laughter 
To  see  me  slink  away. 

Alice:  It  is  no  god, 

But  a  brainless  anger,  a  gaunt  and  evil  thing 
That  blame  can't  reach. 

The  Stranger:     Not  all  have  eyes  to  see.  — 
I'm  harsh  with  my  words,  but  I  come  from  a 

harsh  quarrel 
With  larger  thews  than  man's. 

Alice:  Stranger,  I 'Id  give 

Comely  words  to  any  who  knocks  at  the  door. 
You  are  welcome  —  but  leave  your  praising  of 

this  blight. 

You  safely  gabbing  of  sly  and  cruel  furies, 
Like  a  child  laughing  before  a  cage  of  tigers. 
You  with  your  fancy  talk  of  lords  and  gods 
And  your  hero-veins  —  young  man,  do  you 

know  this  night 

Is  eating  through  my  bones  into  the  marrow, 
And  creeping  round  my  brain  till  thought  is 

dead, 

And  making  my  heart  the  oldest  thing  of  any? 
Do  you  see  those  lights? 

The  Stranger:  They  seemed  odd  moving  there, 
In  a  storm  like  this. 

Alice:  A  man  is  lost  on  the  hills. 

18 


THE  STORM 

The  Stranger:  That's  bad.  But  who? 
Alice:  My  man  is  lost  on  the  hills. 

Sarah:  She  has  it  now;  her  man  is  dead  on 

the  hills. 
The  Stranger:  I  talked  amiss,  not  knowing  of 

trouble  here. 
But  why  should  he  be  dead  ? 

Alice:  The  woman  is  worn, 

Her  mind  is  worn,  and  she  lives  out  of  the  world. 
You  ask  at  once  as  any  wise  man  would. 
I  have  told  her  and  told  and  told  that  he's 

not  dead, 

And  my  young  sister,  too,  though  but  a  girl, 
Says  it,  and  she  has  a  head  beyond  her  years. 
He  is  lost  for  an  hour,  or  maybe  for  a  night, 
But  never  dead.  That  is  the  way  you  think? 
It  is  waiting  that  steals  your  proper  sense  away; 
And  then,  although  you  know,  you  let  in  fear 
Blaspheming  the  thing  you  know  —  it  is  wait- 
ing to-night 
In  the  midst  of  an  idiot  wrath  drumming  and 

drumming 

Like  a  plague  of  bees  in  swarm  above  your  eyes. 
I  do  not  know  —  I  have  not  any  strength 
To  fathom  it  now,  and  there  is  none  to  tell  me. 
Sarah:  She  knows  it  all,  though  the  thing  is 

hard  to  say. 

Alice:  Have  done !  Young  stranger,  you  have 
travelled  the  world, 

19 


PAWNS; 

I  think,  or  have  grown  learned  in  great  cities, 
And  can  tell  the  way  things  go  —  is  it  not 

wrong 

To  say  that  a  man  because  of  an  ugly  night 
Should  perish  on  his  home-ground?  He  would 

find  a  road 

Out  of  a  danger  such  as  that,  because  — 
That  is  the  way  things  happen  —  tell  me  now? 
The  Stranger:  It  is  likely  that  he  would. 
Alice:  You  hear  that,  Joan  — 

A  traveller  who  has  been  in  foreign  dangers 
And  comes  a  scholar  from  a  hundred  cities 
Says  it  is  well,  and  that  we  must  be  patient. 
The  Stranger:  No,  I've  not  travelled,  and  I 

only  say  a  man 

Knowing  the  hills  would  likely  weather  a  storm. 
Alice:  There,  there  —  you  must  not  take  it 

back  again, 
Because  you  know,  and  you  have  said  it  is 

well. 
Sarah:  They  cut  a  stone  that  is  like  a  small 

church  window, 
And  they  carve  a  name  and  a  line  out  of  the 

book, 

And  when  that's  done  there  is  nothing  then  to 
doubt. 

The  storm  has  suddenly  cleared.  The 
silence  falls  upon  them  strangely,  and 
there  is  a  pause. 

20 


THE  STORM 

Alice:  It  is  spent  at  last.  He  will  come  from 

his  shelter  now. 
My  dear  —  come  soon.  Set  the  kettle  again. 

JOAN  does  so.  There  is  another  pause. 
I  have  my  thought  again.  It  is  an  end. 
I  am  broken.  There  is  no  pity  anywhere. 
The  Stranger:  The  lights  are  coming. 
Sarah:  The  anger  never  bates, 

But  scourges  us  till  time  betrays  the  limbs, 
And  strikes  the  tongue,  and  puts  pence  on  the 

eyes, 

And  leaves  the  latch  for  stranger  hands  to  lift. 

The  blackness  beyond  the  window  has 

given  place  to  clear  starlight  on  the 

hills.  A  number  of  men  with  lanterns 

pass  by.  There  is  a  knock:  ALICE 

opens  the  door,  and  the  OLD  MAN 

stands  there  with  his  lighted  lantern. 

She  looks  at  him,  and  neither  speaks. 

She  turns  away  to  the  table. 

Alice:  Why  have  we  waited  ...  all  this  time 

...  to  know  .  .  . 

Her  sorrow  breaks  over  her 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 
(1916) 


TO 

MY  FATHER 


THE  CHARACTERS  ARE 

A  YOUNG  BEGGAR 
AN  OLD  BEGGAR 
A  CITIZEN 
A  SOLDIER 
FIRST  KING 
A  HERALD 
SECOND  KING 
THE  GOD 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

A  road  at  the  summit  of  a  hill  outside  a  be- 
leaguered city.  It  is  the  evening  of  a  hot  sum- 
mer day. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  road  is  a  bank,  from  the  top 
of  which  the  city  could  be  seen.  On  a  great 
stone  cube,  halfway  up  the  bank,  is  the  life- 
sized  figure  of  a  god.  Not  unlike  the  Buddha 
in  presence,  it  is  the  GOD  OF  QUIET. 

Two  BEGGARS,  a  young  man  and  an  old,  come 
in,  moving  towards  the  city.  They  stop. 

Young  Beggar:  Nor  coin  nor  crust. 
Three  leagues  of  dust 
We've  trodden.  Blast 
Them  —  let  them  fast 
And  try  the  flavour  — 

Old  Beggar:  Hold,  man,  hold  — 
JT  was  like  enough  that  our  tale  were  told 
For  ever  before  the  sun  went  down, 
With  the  devils  of  war  let  loose  to  frown 
On  a  poor  man's  cry  for  alms.  We  live, 
And  that  is  something  — 

Young  Beggar:  The  Lord  forgive 
Your  weakling  heart  — 

Old  Beggar:  Nay,  ask  him,  you, 

27 


PAWNS 

To  pardon  the  stubborn  thing  you  do 
In  cursing  when  — 

Young  Beggar:    Stop  your  babbling  tongue, 
Your  belly's  old  but  mine  is  young  — 

Old  Beggar:  Nay,  nay,  my  son;  not  angry 

now  — 

Not  angry  —  there.  I  Ve  seen  the  plough 
Break  stouter  stones  —  the  times  will  mend. 
Young  Beggar:  Old  man,  I  spoke  in  haste  — 
Old  Beggar:  Come,  lend 

Your  arm  —  there  —  so;  now,  let  us  sit 
And  rest  us  here. 

The  OLD  MAN  sits  down  on  the  bank; 
the   YOUNG   MAN  goes  to  the  top 
and  looks  out.  While  he  speaks  the 
OLD  MAN  watches  the  GOD. 
Young  Beggar:  The  slings  have  hit 

That  city  hard.  Well,  let  them  fight 
And  finish.  Broken  walls  are  gates 
Not  warded  well,  and  men  in  flight 
Pay  toll  to  beggars. 

Old  Beggar:  God  creates 

Good  holy  times  of  peace  for  us  — 

Young   Beggar:   Peace  —  holy   times  —  old 

chatter-pie  — 

Old  Beggar:  Rich  seasons  after  ruinous  — 
Young  Beggar:  Dream-daft  old   man,   put 

fancies  by. 
Wits,  wits,  old  man,  are  what  we  need. 

28 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

There's  a  city  learning  its  last  of  good 
And  the  time  is  come  to  drink  and  feed, 
And  there's  pence  for  wits  — 

Old  Beggar:  One  day  I  stood 

At  dusk  in  the  golden  harvest  lands, 
And  watched  the  sickles  rise  and  fall, 
And  the  following  women  with  patient  hands 
Gleaning  all,  gleaning  all. 
And  the  pigeons  slept  in  the  pines,  and  the 

sound 

Of  leaves  and  waters  grew  strange  and  clear, 
And  trouble  had  died,  and  I  had  found 
Peace,  O  Lord,  as  here. 

He  has  risen,  bows  to  the  GOD,  and  sits 

below  the  figure,  untroubled. 
Young  Beggar:  It  is  dying,  dying,  that  city. 
He  turns  to  the  other. 
How 

Can  a  man  keep  sharp  in  the  mind,  and  spring 
On  chance  when  it  comes,  with  a  patchy  cow 
For  mate,  a  soft  and  humble  thing? 
Nimble  fingers,  a  hand  to  strike, 
Then  —  money,  money  .  .  .  blast  you,  speak, 
You,  mild  as  a  bee  old  butcher  shrike 
Has  pegged  on  a  thorn  .  .  .  what  do  you  seek 
In  the  eyes  of  a  copper  image,  made 
By  some  juggling  fellow  with  fancy  brains? 

He  stares  at  the  GOD. 
All  right,  old  image,  I'm  not  afraid  .  .  . 

29 


PAWNS 

I  'm  not  for  your  flock  .  .  .  the  belly's  pains 
Are  masters  may  not  be  served  by  sleep  .  .  , 
Old  drowsy  god  ...  I  must  fight,  and  plan, 
And  lie,  and  be  cunning,  and  peer,  and  creep  — 
For  starving 's  a  dirty  death  for  a  man. 
Old  Beggar:  There 's  many  a  man  with  a  'buzz- 
ing hive 
Of  thoughts  in  his  brain  that  are  nothing  at 

all. 
Young  Beggar:  Damn  you,  be  still!  .  .  .  You 

dead-alive 

Old  grinning  god,  I'm  what  you'd  call 
A  fellow  with  gift  of  argument, 
And  I  tell  you  he  should  be  hurrying  now, 
Ransacking  the  world,  not  a  mere  consent, 
A  space  unpeopled,  a  rusty  plough  .  .  . 
Life  is  a  matter  of  shouting  and  haste, 
You  quiet,  old  seducing  thing  .  .  . 
Why  won't  you  shout?  .  .  .  You  muddy-faced 
Old  silence  . . .  silence  . . .  beggar-man,  king  . . . 
Victuals  and  void  . . .  sharp  stones  and  boots  . . . 
A  coat  and  nakedness  .  .  .  rain  and  sun  .  .  . 
A   thistle   that's   blown  and   a   thistle   with 

roots  .  .  . 
All  right,  old  god  .  .  .  all's  one,  all's  one. 

He  sits  beside  his  fellow,  composed.  An 
exhausted  SOLDIER,  who  has  been 
out  from  the  city,  reconnoitring,  comes 
in,  watching  the  distances. 

30 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

Soldier:  Have  you  seen  a  king  in  golden  gear 
And  a  great  host  moving  to  bring  us  aid? 

A  -pause. 
Are  you  drunk,  or  daft,  or  won't  you  hear? 

He  moves  up  the  bank,  and  looks  down 
to  the  city;  then,  fixedly,  at  the  GOD; 
a  pause. 
Old  god  of  quiet,  you've  lost  your  trade. 

An  OLD  MAN  from  the  city  comes  in 

hurriedly.  The  SOLDIER  comes  down. 

Soldier:  News  —  what  news  from  the  city 

walls  ? 
Citizen:  An  arm-thrust  more  and  the  city 

falls. 
Is  there  sound  or  sign  of  the  swords  of  the 

king  ? 

Soldier:  No  sound,  nor  sign. 
Citizen:  That  life  should  bring 

Her  comely  days  to  so  bad  a  close; 
Have  you  sought  them  far? 

Soldier:  There  are  watchful  foes 

About  us  —  I  dare  not  set  my  feet 
Beyond  this  place. 

Citizen:  And  life  was  sweet, 

A  good  adventure  —  and  now  an  end 
Of  pleasant  ways  between  friend  and  friend. 

He  moves  up  the  bank. 
O  city  whose  red  roofs  look  to  the  sea, 
Never  again  your  stones  shall  be 

31 


PAWNS 

Glad  of  your  children  who  smite  the  waves 
With  oars  well  swung, 

Coming  down 

and  bonded  slaves 

Shall  live  to  grudge  their  dead  of  death. 
Soldier:    I   have   fought,   and   hoped,   and 

spoken  well 

In  the  midst  of  fears,  and  I'll  spend  no  breath 
Nor  courage  more  to  dispute  with  hell. 
We're  a  broken  city,  and  ill's  the  day; 
My  dear  was  hungry,  my  dear  is  dead  — 
And  old  god  Quiet  may  whistle  away 
Till  the  furies  are  quiet  that  throng  my  head. 
He  sits  below  the  GOD. 
Citizen:  Nay,  let  your  sword  be  busy  down 

below. 
Soldier:  My  limbs  are  all  bemused.  I  cannot 

go. 
Citizen:  One  sword  may  strike  the  balance  in 

this  doubt. 
Soldier:  The  scales  are  turned;  the  city's  term 

is  out. 

Citizen:  And  will  you  choose  in  this  extrem- 
ity 
To  creep  aside  from  fate? 

Soldier:  I  only  see, 

Beyond  disaster  that  I  understand 
Darkly  as  men  the  process  of  a  hand 
Obscure  in  heaven  and  hell,  a  little  space 

32 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

For  rest,  and  the  remembrance  of  a  face, 
And  falling  sleep,  then  covering  death,  obscure 
Even  as  life,  unfathomable,  sure 
As  fugitive  thoughts  that  pass  and  turn  again; 
Aye,  death  is  dark  as  is  the  madness  of  men, 
But  life  distract  is  savage  in  the  throat, 
A  blind  uncaptained  vigour,  and  remote 
From  reason's  airy  palaces,  a  way 
Teased  by  a  million  purposes,  till  day 
Rattles  on  day  in  black  bewilderment  .  .  . 
But  death,  I  think,  is  quiet,  and  a  spent 
Sorrow  at  least,  when  every  friend  is  kind, 
And  fretting  worms  no  more  can  plague  the 
mind. 

Citizen:  You  yet  are  young  for  death. 

Soldier:  What  cause  have  I 

To  covet  dribbling  age  who  am  now  put  by 
Bereaved  and  broken  in  my  middle  years 
From  life's  assembly? 

Citizen:  Thus  is  it  one  hears 

From  men  who  are  light  with  weariness. 

Soldier:  It  is  so  — 

I  am  tired,  tired,  tired;  old  god,  you  know  .  .  . 
And  much  disputing  is  but  foolishness  — 
A  ploughing  of  sown  fields. 

Citizen:  And  in  distress 

You  are  afraid. 

Soldier:  Who  tries  another's  heart 

Speaks  as  a  god,  and  cannot  bear  his  part. 

33 


PAWNS 

Citizen:  Down  there  for  winning  is  a  hero's 
name. 

Soldier:  I  have  endured,  and  hold  it  now  no 

shame 

1*0  pass  forgotten.  There  is  no  weight  at  all 
Now  in  this  arm,  and  where  the  heroes  fall 
Should  I  too  join  a  sorry  sword,  't  would  be 
But  boasting  in  my  pale  infirmity 
Of  such  immortal  courage  as  shall  lose 
No  virtue  being  secret.  My  blood  and  thews 
I  have  not  spared;  my  mind  is  easy  so; 
And,  though  my  friend  is  death,  I  will  not 

go 

Courting  a  vain  death  for  my  renown. 
For  every  hero  compassing  his  crown, 
Darkly  in  indistinguishable  sleep 
A  hundred  lie,  and  the  quick  world  shall  keep 
No  word  of  how  their  hearts  were  bright,  how 

spent 
At  last.  I  am  of  these,  and  am  content. 

Citizen:  Aye  —  it  is  just  a  weariness  of  brain. 
Soldier:  O  lord  of  quiet,  I  am  yours  again, 
After  confusion,  after  vanity. 

He  turns  away  to  the  GOD. 
Citizen  (looking  down  to  the  city) :  All  now  is 
done  .  .  . 

How  long  shall  succour  be  ... 
He  will  come  too  late,  this  king  who  was  our 
friend. 

34 


There  is  a  pause;  then  in  the  distance 

victorious  cries  from  the  besiegers: 
Voices:  It  is   ours.   The   wall   is   breaking. 

Stricken:  send 
One  thunder  more.  It  falls  ...  It  falls  ...  It 

falls! 

Citizen:  The  time  is  come.  And  bloody  burials 
Shall  take  their  lamentable  toll  of  days, 
And  men  shall  know  the  sorrow  that  betrays 
Beauty  and  resolution  and  the  high 
Conduct  of  heart  proposing  patiently 
Desirable  shapes  wrought  out  of  shapeless  dust, 
Not  scattering  of  created  things.  And  lust 
Of  vengeance  shall  make  black  the  people's 

mind, 

So  heavy  is  their  trial,  and  so  blind 
Has  queer  omnipotence  set  us  from  his  hand. 
So  death  shall  have  his  season  in  the  land, 
Distracted  death,  till  life  shall  come  again 
As  water  to  the  maddened  tongues  of  men 
Burnt  on  the  sand  of  sterile  leagues  of  waste; 
And  all  the  words,  the  tumult,  and  the  haste 
That  prosper  now  to  feed  some  curious  pride 
Shall  pass.  O  quiet  god,  be  satisfied : 
The  battles  fail:  your  healing  eyes  endure; 
Kingdoms  are  ghosts :  your  kingdom  is  secure. 
THE  KING,  a  great  captain,  moving  to 

the  city's  relief,  enters. 
King:  What  on  the  walls  ? 

35 


,  .PAWNS 

Citizen:  An  end  is  made. 

King  (as  to  his  lieutenants) :  Stay  you. 

Looking  down  to  the  city. 
Aye,  twenty  thousand  spear, 
Which  is  my  measure,  might  be  laid 
Threefold  in  vain  against  their  gear. 
(To  his  men.)  Let  all  be  still.  What  men  are 
these  ? 

Citizen:  Though  strange,  devout;  they  wor- 
ship. 

King:        Whom  ? 

Citizen:  The  God  of  Quiet. 

King  (he  looks  at  the  GOD;  a  pause):  A  god 

who  sees. 

World-weary  city  at  your  doom, 
Strong  king  in  your  victorious  hour, 
You  have  endured,  and  slain,  and  died, 
Poor  clay  that  would  excel  in  power, 
Made  frantic  by  some  silly  pride. 
Could  you  not  learn  that  while  we  grow 
As  men,  maybe  from  less  to  more 
While  aeons  over  aeons  flow, 
Yet  holiest  man  may  move  before 
His  fellows  but  a  single  pace, 
One  flight  of  thought,  and  from  his  tongue 
Hardly  shall  fall  a  word  of  grace 
More  than  from  any  clod  among 
Sad  naturals  or  runagates? 
No.  You  must  still  with  narrow  eyes 

36 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

Consider  how  to  top  your  mates 

And  write  your  name  across  the  skies; 

Nor  great  for  honour  your  desire, 

Nor  vision,  nor  creating  song, 

But  merely  for  consuming  fire, 

Sorry  possessions,  and  a  strong 

Sword  that  shall  rule  you  know  not  how, 

Judgment,  you  know  not  whom  to  bind  .  .  . 

The  fruit  was  full  upon  the  bough, 

0  spendthrift  wind,  O  spendthrift  wind, 
Mad  hearts,  mad  world,  mad  blood  of  men, 
Mad  counsels  and  mad  reckoning  .  .  . 

You  quiet  god,  I  leave  again 
Their  tumult,  and  to  you  I  bring 
Humility,  and  thought  that  burns 
To  shape  itself  and  fetter  none  .  .  . 
We  wake,  a  generation  turns, 
We  learn  to  love,  and  we  have  done  .  .  . 
And  shall  we  spend  these  little  days 
Disputing  till  our  veins  are  cold? 

He  sits  before  the  GOD. 

Citizen:  The  victor  comes. 

King:  Or  comes  or  stays 

It  is  no  matter. 

Citizen:  I  am  old  — 

A  spent  arm,  a  mere  messenger 
Whose  errands  now  are  done.  At  last 

1  too  may  rest 

He  sits  by  the  others. 

37 


PAWNS 

King:  I  wasted  where 

Shrill  madness  was;  those  moods  are  cast. 

A  moments  pause. 
Old  Beggar:   It    is   the    quiet    mind    that 

keeps 
The  tumults  of  the  world  in  poise. 

Soldier:  It  is  the  angry  soul  that  sleeps 
Where  the  world's  folly  is  and  noise; 
King:  For  anger  blunts  us  and  destroys. 
Citizen:  We  are  little  men  to  be  so  proud. 
Young  Beggar:  We  are  fools:  what  was  so 

long  to  build 
We  break. 

King:       Our  praise  is  for  the  loud 
Tongue  and  the  glib. 

Old  Beggar:  The  gentle-willed 

We  starve,  and  the  prophet's  lips  are  stilled. 
King:  It  is  the  quiet  mind  that  wakes. 
Citizen:  The  angry  soul  ever  is  blind. 
Young  Beggar:  Love  is  the  bowl  that  folly 

breaks. 
Soldier:  Who  rules  the  world  the  world  shall 

find. 
Old  Beggar:  All  wisdom  is  the  quiet  mind. 

A  -pause  again.  A  HERALD  comes  in. 
Herald:  Are    you  the  king    who  with  his 

arms  was  sworn 

In  succour  to  this  city  now  forlorn? 
King:  I  am  that  king. 

38 


THE.  GOD  OF  QUIET 

Herald:  And  will  you  yet  oppose 

My  lord  of  so  sure  aim? 

King:  Which  of  us  knows 

What  is  our  aim,  much  less  if  it  be  true? 

Herald:  Will  you  set  for  battle? 

King:  What  have  I  to  do 

With  battles  now?  I  have  thought  a  strange  new 

thing 
This  day. 

Herald:  Though  some  few  score  may  call  you 

king, 

My  master  is  a  king  would  make  your  crown 
A  twisted  slip  of  brass.  Had  you  gone  down 
In  battle  to  the  city  walls,  your  end 
Had  been  to  swell  his  triumph;  nor  shall  mend 
Your  case  if  now  you  bring  your  ranks  to  dare 
The  fury  of  his  captaincy. 

King:  I  care 

For  nothing  bitter  now  that  men  may  say. 
Quarrels  are  done. 

Herald:  My  king  shall  choose  a  way 

Chastising  this  infirmity  of  will, 
Surely  as  had  his  hand  been  strong  to  fill 
Your  armies  with  disaster  had  you  stood 
With  your  king's  name  in  a  king's  hardihood. 

King:  You  god  of  quiet,  some  day  shall  men 

have  spent 
All  the  wild  humorous  blood  of  argument? 

THE  VICTORIOUS  KING  comes  in. 

39 


PAWNS 

Second  King:  What  of  the  lord  who  thought 

to  stride  across 
My  way? 

Herald:  His  valour  will  bring  little  loss 
To  your  victorious  arms.  He  has  put  by 
The  sceptre  and  the  warrior  sword,  to  lie 
With  beggars  mumbling  at  some  idol's  feet  — 
That  is  the  man  — 
Second  King  (to  FIRST  KING)  :  Fellow,  I  came 

to  meet 

A  king  in  arms  —  one  worthy  of  my  might, 
One  strong  to  bear  the  intolerable  sight 
Of  all  my  spears  a  moment  ere  he  fell, 
And  should  no  other  story  be  to  tell 
Save  that  he  too  was  broken  at  my  heel. 
Now,  though  you  slink  aside,  you  yet  shall  feel 
My  majesty,  the  anger  of  my  name  .  .  . 
Captive  and  stripped,  you  shall  be  a  jest,  a 

shame, 

A  laughter  to  my  kingdoms  and  your  own, 
You  faint  and  thin  deserter  of  a  throne, 
You  spiritless  who  feared  the  naked  blades  .  .  . 
Why  did  you  fear,  and  cheat  me? 

First  King:  Falsehood  fades, 

And  consciousness  is  full  and  the  world  swings 

true, 

And  happy  vision  rides  unclouded  through 
The  ordered  ranks  of  circumstance  alone 
When  man  of  man  is  patient,  and  the  sown 

40 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

Harvests  of  one  are  gathered  to  his  gate 

Uncoveted  of  any.  And  the  hate 

Of  blood  for  blood  and  bone  for  bone  can  find 

No  habitation  in  the  quiet  mind  .  .  . 

Why  should  the  lust  of  man  be  ever  set 

To  bring  his  neighbours  to  the  cunning  net, 

Or  drive  him  headlong  howling  through  his 

days, 

Mad  with  much  labour  in  disastrous  ways, 
Till  kind  oblivion  folds  him,  and  he  can 
Never  again  be  folly's  mark? 

Second  King:  Not  man, 

But  life  it  is  that  frets  us  till  we  die, 
Great  life  that  urges,  bidding  us  defy 
All  who  would  stand  against  us,  and  to  spare 
Nothing  of  pain  and  sacrifice,  but  dare 
Very  calamity  to  let  our  name 
Thrive  in  the  lists  of  honour. 

First  King:  Though  the  flame 

Of  life,  of  the  multitudinous  world,  is  keen 
To  drive  the  blood  thrilling  about  us,  clean 
For  all  adventure  and  great  knowledge,  still 
It  is  man  who  snares  the  spirit  of  man  to  spill 
His  fortunate  treasure  in  dispute  and  vain 
Adding  of  barren  gain  to  barren  gain. 
And  honour  that  is  your  hope  is  but  a  word 
Distract  and  void  to  hearts  that  have  never 

heard 
Kindness  and  contemplation  call. 

41 


PAWNS 

Second  King  {to  the  GOD)  :  What  bane 

Of  madness  have  you  planted  in  his  brain? 
How  have  you  slacked  the  heat  that  should 

have  passed 

Defeated  to  my  glory,  and  how  cast 
That  valour  down  that  should  have  been  my 

spoils? 

Not  even  a  god  shall  lightly  set  his  toils 
Against  my  triumphs  .  .  . 

First  King:  Why  do  you  rail? 

Is  it  always  so  in  your  restless  mind, 
That  ever  your  words  must  rattle  as  hail 
On  gods  and  men?  Can  you  never  find 
That  centre  of  thought  where  life  is  thrilled 
As  a  world  of  wings  plying  the  air, 
A  million  pulses  that  beat,  and  build, 
Of  the  flowing  arcs  that  are  weaving  there, 
A  perfect  balance  —  a  motion  due 
As  ever  the  tides  of  the  sea  have  known, 
True  as  the  flight  of  a  god  is  true, 
Yet  sweet  and  still  as  the  carven  stone  . .  . 

Second  King:  Will  you  fight? 

First    King:   Your  word    brings    back  to 

me 

Swords,  and  blood  .  .  .  and  forgotten^things, 
As  sometimes,  out  of  a  scent  maybe 
Of  moss  on  a  wall  in  April,  springs 
To  a  moment  of  life,  that  is  born  and  sped 
In  a  curious  flavour  of  the  mind, 

42 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

Some  buried  hour  from  the  years  long  dead  — 
So  much  is  your  word,  but  this. 

Second  King:  .  They  find 

Who  speak  me  so  that  they  speak  not  well. 
First  King:  O  quiet  god,  I  will  speak  no  more. 
Second  King  (to  the  GOD):  O  quiet  god!  And 

the  day  shall  tell 

Of  a  god  no  less  than  a  man  who  bore 
His  will  against  mine  and  repented  it  — 
You  have  thought  to  subdue  with  your  quiet 

eyes 

The  prey  of  my  sword,  you  have  thought  to  sit 
And  govern  by  peace,  while  I  must  rise 
And  stride  through  the  world  and  sweat  and 

bleed 

To  gather  my  gains,  and  the  man  shall  take, 
Who  should  measure  his  might  against  mine, 

a  creed 

That  tricks  my  glory,  my  will  for  the  sake 
Of  a  sleepy  vision !  A  god  may  rule 
As  he  will  in  some  heaven  with  gods  to  hear; 
But  a  god  who  comes  between  men  is  a  fool, 
And  a  fool  is  little  enough  to  fear. 

He  drives  his  dagger  to  the  GOD'S  heart. 
The  GOD  rises,  and  speaks,  swaying. 
The  God  (crying  out) :  Not  one  of  you  in  all 
the  world  to  know  me. 

The   GOD  falls   headlong.    All   rise. 
There  is  silence  for  a  moment. 

43 


PAWNS 

First  King  (fiercely}:  Why  did  you  do  it? 
Second  King:  He  was  a  bad  god  — - 

A  sly  god  and  slothful  —  an  evil  liver  — 
First  King:  Why  did  you  do  it?  He  was  a 

friendly  god, 

Smiling  upon  our  faults,  a  great  forgiver  .  .  . 
He  gave  us  quietness  — 

Second  King:      I  say  that  he  *s  well  dead  — 
First  King:  And  I  curse  you  for  the  killing, 
He  draws  his  sword. 
and  here  I  swear 

To  requite  the  honour  of  this  god  ill  bestead 
By  a  braggart  king. 

Second  King  (drawing  his  sword):  So  ho!  at 

last  you  dare 

To  stand  again  as  a  man — my  coney,  come  — 
You  shall  die  well,  being  slain  by  me. 

Young  Beggar  (to  OLD  BEGGAR)  :  Can  he  do 
As  he  said  and  avenge  the  god? 

They  talk  together. 
Second  King  (to  HERALD)  :      Trumpet   and 

drum 
Bid  all  to  arms! 

THE   HERALD   gives  the  signal,  and 

they  sound  to  arms. 

First  King  (to  soldier):  And  bid  my  armies, 
you  — 

THE    SOLDIER   does  so.      THE   OLD 
BEGGAR  raises  the  head  of  the  fallen 

44 


THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

GOD  in  his  arm,  the  KINGS  fac- 
ing each  other  with  drawn  swords, 
trumpets  and  drums  sounding  from 
both  armies.  ALL  go  off,  the  KINGS 
fighting,  and  for  a  moment  nothing 
is  heard  save  the  clashing  of  their 
swords. 
Old  Beggar  (looking  into  the  face  of  the  fallen 

GOD)  :  Not  one  of  us  in  all  the  world  to 

know  you. 

Cries  and  the  noise  of  arms  break  out 
again  as  the  curtain  falls. 


x=o 

A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 


TO 

GILBERT  CANNAN 


THE  CHARACTERS  ARE 

PRONAX  ) 

_  >  Greeks 

SALVIUS  j 


. 

_,  >•  Trojans 

CAPYS    j 

A  GREEK  SENTINEL 
A  GREEK  SERVANT 

The  action  passes  between  a  Greek  tent  and 
the  Trojan  walls,  and  is  continuous. 


x=o 

A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 

SCENE  I 

A  Grecian  tent  on  the  Plain  before  Troy,  towards 
the  end  of  the  ten  years'  war.  It  is  a  starry 
summer  night.  PRONAX  and  SALVIUS,  two 
young  Greek  soldiers,  are  in  the  tent,  SAL- 
VIUS reading  by  a  lighted  torch,  PRONAX 
watching  the  night.  During  the  scene  a 
SENTINEL  passes  at  intervals  to  and  fro  be- 
hind the  tent. 

Pronax:  So  is  the  night  often  at  home.  I  have 

seen 
White   orchards   brighten   under   a    summer 

moon, 

As  now  these  tents  under  the  stars.  This  hour 
My  father's  coppices  are  full  of  song, 
While  sleep  is  on  the  comfortable  house  — 
Unless  one  dear  one  wakes  to  think  of  me 
And  count  my  chances  when  the  Trojan  death 
Goes  on  its  nightly  errand. 

The  SENTINEL  passes. 
It's  a  dear  home, 

And  fragrant,  and  there's  blessed  fruit  and 
corn, 

51 


PAWNS 

And  thoughts  that  make  me  older  than  my 

youth 

Come  even  from  the  nettles  at  the  gate. 
To-day,  perhaps,  the  harvesters  are  out, 
And  on  the  night  is  the  ripe  pollen  blown  .  .  . 
And  this  is  the  third  harvest  that  has  gone 
While  we  have  wasted  on  a  barren  plain 
To  avenge  some  wrong  done  in  our  babyhood 
On    beauty  that   we   have   not   seen.  Three 

years  .  .  . 

But  so  it  is,  and  so  it  must  be  done, 
Till  the  Greek  oath  is  proven.  Salvius, 
Why  is  all  lovely  thought  a  pain  ? 

Salvius:  We  know 

Even  upon  the  flood  of  adoration, 
That  beauty  passes.  That's  the  tragic  tale 
That  is  our  world. 

Pronax:  Is  it  not  very  strange 

That,  prisoned  in  this  quarrel  so  long  and  long, 
Until  to  remember  a  little  Argive  street 
Is  torture  to  the  bone,  yet  there  is  now 
Nothing  of  hatred  in  the  blood  for  them 
Whose  death  is  all  our  daily  use,  but  merely 
Consent  in  death,   knowing  that  death  may 

strike 

Across  our  tongues  as  lightly  as  those  that  lie 
For  ever  dumb  because  we  might  not  spare. 

Salvius:  Not  strange;  who  goes  in  company 
with  death, 

52 


A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 

Watching  his  daily  desolation,  thinking, 
On  every  stroke,  of  all  the  agony 
That  from  that  stroke  goes  throbbing,  throb- 
bing, throbbing, 

Forgets  all  hate.  How  should  we  hate  the  dead  ? 
And,  where  death  ranges  as  among  us  now, 
You,  Pronax,  I,  and  our  antagonists 
And  friends  alike  are  all  but  as  dead  men 

The  SENTINEL  passes. 
Moving  together  in  a  ghostly  world, 
With  life  a  luckless  beggar  at  the  door. 
It  is  not  ours  to  hate,  who  have  all  put  by 
That  safety  where  men  think  eternity 
Immeasurably  far,  and  leisured  passions  have 
Their  sorry  breeding  place.  Great  kings  may 

hate, 
And  priests  may  thunder  hate,  and  grey-beard 

prophets 

May  cry  again  to  those  who  cry  their  hate 
In  pride  of  their  new-found  authority, 
Fearing  lest  love  should  mark  them  as  they  are, 
And  send  them  barren  from  their  brutal  thrift. 
But  not  for  us  this  envy.  It  is  ours 
Merely  to  die,  or  give  the  death  that  these 
Out  of  their  hatred  or  indifference  will. 

Pronax:  It's  not  that  a  man  grows  tardy  in 

his  duty  .  .  . 

It's  still  a  glad  thing  to  do  as  the  motherland 
bids, 

53 


PAWNS 

Though  the  blind  soul  forgets  how  sprang  the 

cause. 
I  shall  die  in  my  hour,  though  it  should  come 

to-day, 

Not  grudging.  Yet  it  is  bitterness  for  youth, 
When  nothing  should  be  but  scrutiny  of  life, 
Mating,  and  building  towards  a  durable  fame, 
And  setting  the  hearthstone  trim  for  a  lover's 

cares, 
To  let  all  knowledge  of  these  things  go,  and 

learn 
Only  of  death,  that  should  be  hidden  from 

youth, 

A  great  thing  biding  upon  the  fulness  of  age, 
And  not  made  common  gossip  among  these 

tides 

Of  daily  beastliness.  And  still  I  must  remember, 
For  all  I  have  renounced  my  thronging  life, 
My  orchards,  and  my  rivers,  and  the  bells 
Of  twilight  cattle  moving  in  the  mist. 

Salvius:  I  know;  the  mind  grows  faint  with 

thinking  of  them  — 

Those  little,  lovely  things  of  home.  My  bed 
Looks  to  the  west  on  the  Ionian  sea  — 
A  sweet,  fresh-smelling  room  it  is.  I  wrote 
My  rightest  poems  there.  I  cannot  see 
A  sail  now  coming  Troyward  but  my  brain 
Is  sick  for  that  small  room,  above  the  quay 
Where  sailors  laugh  at  dawn  and  all  day  long, 

54 


A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 

Until  the  silent  sunset  ships  go  out 
Into  Sicilian  waters. 

Pronax:  There  your  poems 

Were  made,  in  Pylos;  and  in  Athens  I 
Too  dreamed,  although  I  caught  no  lyric  song — 
I  envy  you  your  song;  —  I  was  to  build 
A  cleaner  state;  I  dreamed  a  policy 
Purer  than  states  have  known;  I  was  to  bring 
Princedom  to  every  hearth,  to  every  man 
Knowledge  that  he  was  master  of  his  fate. 
The  dream  is  dulled.  Three  years  of  Trojan 

dust 

Have  taught  me  but  to  pray  at  night  for  sleep, 
And  an  arm  stronger  in  cunning  than  my  foe's, 
A  quicker  eye  to  parry  death.  And,  Salvius, 
What  of  your  songs  ? 

Salvius:  Asleep  these  many  days, 

Biding  their  happy  time  if  that  should  be. 

Pronax:  And  death  is  watching, 

The  SENTINEL  passes. 
and  your  song,  that  grew 
In  the  womb  of  generations  for  the  use 
And  joy  of  men,  may  perish  ere  it  takes 
Its  larger  music,  that  the  tale  may  go 
That  Greece  drove  bloodier  war  than  Ilium; 
That's  a  poor  bargain.  .  .  .  But  these  thoughts 

that  stir 

Like  ghosts  out  of  a  life  that  should  have  been 
Neglect  my  duty.  It  is  past  the  hour 

55 


PAWNS 

I  should  be  nosing  along  the  Trojan  wall 

To  catch  what  prey  may  be.  I  have  scarred  the 

wall 
At  the  bend  there  where  I  told  you,  in  the 

breaking  stone, 

These  many  nights,  until  at  last  I've  made 
A  foothold  to  the  top.  It's  a  queer  game, 
This  tripping  of  life  suddenly  in  the  dark, 
This  blasting  of  flesh  that  is  wholesome  yet  in 

the  blood, 
And  those  who  weep,  I  think,  are  as  those 

would  weep 

If  I  should  fall.  I  loathe  it;  but,  good-night; 
You  should  sleep;  it  is  late,  and  it  is  your  guard 

at  dawn. 

He  is  arming  himself,  and  wrapping 

himself  in  his  cloak. 
Good-night.  What  are  you  reading? 

Salvius:  Songs  that  one 

Made  in  my  province.  The  sails  are  in  his  song, 
And  seabirds,  and  our  level  pasturelands, 
And  the  bronzed  fishers  on  the  flowing  tides. 
His  name  was  Creon.  I  will  make  such  songs 
If  the  years  will. 

Pronax  (who  has  poured  himself  out  and  drunk 

a  cup  of  wine) :       I  know.  Put  out  the 

torch 

If  you're  abed  before  I  come.  Good-night. 
Salvius:  Good-night:  good  luck. 

56 


A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 

Pronax:  And  will  you  bid  them  fill 

The  trough;  this  business  may  make  bloody 
hands. 

He  looks  out  into  the  night,  and  goes. 

The  SENTINEL  passes. 
Salvius  (reading) :   Upon   the   dark   Sicilian 

waves, 

The  casting  fishers  go  ... 
The  curtain  falls 

SCENE  II 

On  Troy  wall.  CAPYS,  a  young  Trojan  soldier,  is 
on  guard,  looking  out  over  the  plain  where 
the  Greeks  are  encamped.  ILUS,  another 
young  soldier,  his  friend,  wearing  a  bear- 
skin, comes  to  him. 

Ilus:  When  does  your  watch  end  ? 

Capys:  In  two  hours;  at  midnight. 

Ilus:  They're  beautiful,  those  tents,  under 

the  stars. 

It  is  my  night  to  go  like  a  shadow  among  them, 
And,  snatching  a  Greek  life,  come  like  a  shadow 

again. 
It's  an  odd  skill  to  have  won  in  the  rose  of  your 

youth  — 

Two  years,  and  once  in  seven  days  —  a  hun- 
dred, 
More  than  a  hundred,  and  only  once  a  fault. 

57 


PAWNS 

A  hundred  Greek  boys,  Capys,  like  myself  — 
Loving,  and  quick  in  honour,  and  clean  of 

fear  — 
Spoiled  in  their  beauty  by  me  whose  desire  is 

beauty 
Since  first  I  walked  the  April  hedgerows.  Would 

time 

But  work  upon  this  Helen's  face,  maybe 
This  nine-year  quarrel  would  be  done,  and 

Troy 

Grow  sane,  and  her  confounding  councillors 
Be  given  carts  to  clean  and  drive  to  market. 
What  of  your  sea-girl  ?  Has  she  grown  ? 

Capys:  You  ask 

Always  the  question,  friend.  The  chisels  rust, 
The  moths  are  in  my  linen  coats,  my  mallets 
Are  broken.  Ilus,  in  my  brain  were  limbs 
Supple  and  mighty;   the  beauty  of  women 

moved 

To  miraculous  birth  in  my  imagining; 
I  had  conceived  the  body  of  man,  to  make 
Divine  articulation  of  the  joy 
That  flows  uncounted  in  every  happy  step 
Of  health;  the  folk  faring  about  Troy  streets 
Should  have  flowered  upon  my  marble  marvel- 
lously: 

I  would  have  given  my  land  a  revelation 
Sweet  as  the  making  of  it  had  been  to  me. 
And  still  it  shall  be,  if  ever  from  my  mind 

58 


A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 

Falls  this  obscure  monotony,  that  makes 
The  world  an  echo,  its  vivid  gesture  gone. 
Troy  peaceful  shall  be  Troy  magnificent, 
For  I  will  make  her  so. 

Ilus:  It  would  be  grand 

If  Troy  would  use  us  as  we  might  be  used, 
To  build  and  sing  and  make  her  market-places 
Honest,  and  show  her  people  that  all  evil 
Is  the  lethargic  mind.  I  have  seen  this  Troy 
Bloom  in  my  thought  into  a  simple  state 
Where  jealousy  was  dead  because  no  man  spoke 
Out  of  his  vanity  of  the  thing  he  knew  not. 
Capys,  it  is  so  little  that  is  needed 
For  righteousness;  we  are  all  so  truly  made, 
If  only  to  our  making  we  were  true. 
Why  should  we  fight  these  Greeks?  There  was 

some  anger, 
Some  generous  heat  of  the  blood  those  years 

ago, 

When  Paris  brought  his  Helen  into  Troy 
With  Menelaus  screaming  at  his  heels; 
But  that's  forgotten  now,  and  none  can  stay 
This  thing  that  none  would  have  endure.  I  have 

thought 

Often,  upon  those  nights  when  I  have  gone 
Fatally  through  the  Grecian  tents,  how  well 
Might  he  whose  life  I  stole  and  I  have  thriven 
Together  conspiring  this  or  that  of  good 
For  all  men,  and  I  have  sickened,  and  gone  on 

59 


PAWNS 

To  strike  again  as  Troy  has  bidden  me, 
For  an  oath  is  a  queer  weevil  in  the  brain. 

Capys:  Who's  there? 

A  Voice:  Troy  and  the  Trojan  death. 

Capys:  Pass  Troy. 

It  is  still  upon  the  plains  to-night,  and  the  stars 
Are  a  lantern  light  against  you  —  you  must 

go 

Warily,  Ilus.  The  loss  of  many  friends 
Has  sharpened  my  love,  not  dulled  me  against 

loss. 

I  am  careful  for  you  to-night  in  all  this  beauty 
Of  glowing  summer  —  disaster  might  choose 

this  night 

So  brutally,  and  so  disaster  likes. 
Go  warily. 

Ilus:         I  know  the  tented  squares 
And  every  lane  among  the  Greeks,  as  I  know 
The  walls  of  Troy;  and  I  can  pass  at  night 
Within  an  handshot  of  a  watching  eye, 
And  be  but  a  shadow  of  cloud  or  a  windy  bush. 
A  hundred  times,  remember. 

Capys:  Yet  would  I  could  come 

To  take  your  danger  or  share  it. 

Ilus:  No;  there's  a  use 

That's  more  than  courage  in  this.  And,  Capys, 

yet 

Those  chisels  must  win  your  vision  into  form 
For  the  world's  light  and  ease.  It's  an  ill  day 

60 


A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 

Among  ill  days  that  smites  the  seer's  lips. 
Your  work's  to  do. 

Capys:       And  yours  —  that  dream  of  Troy 
Regenerate,  with  the  heart  of  the  people  shown 
In  the  people's  life,  not  lamentably  hurt 
By  men  who,  mazed  with  authority,  put  by 
Authority's  proper  use,  and  so  are  evil, 
While  still  the  folk  under  their  tyranny  keep 
Their  kindness,  waiting  upon  deliverance. 
So  may  we  come  together  to  our  work, 
In  prophecy  you  of  life,  creation  I. 
How  long  to-night? 

Ilus:  Before  your  watch  is  done 

I  shall  be  back.  Here  at  this  point,  before 
The  night  is  full;  throw  me  the  rope  upon 
The  signal,  thus  — 

He  whistles.  He  is  climbing  over  the 
parapet,  to  which  he  has  hooked  a 
rope. 

Peace  with  you  till  I  come. 
Capys:  And  luck  with  you.  Go  warily.  Fare- 
well. 

ILUS  drops  down  to  the  plain  below. 
CAPYS  draws  the  rope  up.  There  is 
silence  for  a  moment. 
Capys  (moving  to  and  fro  along  the  wall) : 

Or  Greek  or  Trojan,  all  is  one 
When  snow  falls  on  our  summertime, 

61 


PAWNS" 

And  when  the  happy  noonday  rhyme 
Because  of  death  is  left  undone. 

The  bud  that  breaks  must  surely  pass, 
Yet  is  the  bud  more  sure  of  May 
Than  youth  of  age,  when  every  day 
Death  is  youth's  shadow  in  the  glass. ' 

A  hand  is  seen  groping  on  the  parapet. 
PRONAX,  looking  cautiously  along 
the  wall,  draws  himself  up  silently, 
unseen  by  CAPYS,  who  continues: 

Beside  us  ever  moves  a  hand, 
Unseen,  of  deadly  stroke,  and  when 
It  falls  on  youth  — 

He  hears  the  movement  behind  him,  and 

turns  swiftly. 
Who's  there? 
Pronax  (rushing  upon  him) :  A  Greek  unlucky 

to  Trojan  arms  — 
A  sworn  Greek,  terrible  in  obedience. 

His  onslaught  has  overwhelmed  CAPYS, 
who  falls  without  a  cry,  the  Greek's 
dagger  in  his  breast.  PRONAX  draws 
it  out,  looks  at  his  dead  antagonist, 
shudders,  peers  out  over  the  wall,  and 
very  carefully  climbs  down  at  the 
point  where  he  came. 
The  curtain  falls 

62 


A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 

SCENE  III 

The  Greek  tent  again.  SALVIUS  is  still  reading, 
and  the  torch  burning.  A  SERVANT  brings 
a  large  jar  of  water  which  he  pours  into  the 
trough  outside  the  tent.  He  goes  with  the  jar, 
and  a  moment  later  the  SENTINEL  passes 
behind  the  tent.  There  is  silence  for  a  few 
moments,  SALVIUS  turning  the  pages  of  his 
book.  Then,  from  the  shadow  in  front  of  the 
tent,  ILUS  in  his  bearskin  is  seen  stealthily 
approaching.  He  reaches  the  tent  opening 
without  a  sound,  and  in  the  same  unbroken 
silence  his  dagger  is  in  the  Greek's  heart. 
ILUS  catches  the  dead1  man  as  he  falls,  and 
lets  his  body  sink  on  to  one  of  the  couches 
inside  the  tent.  The  SENTINEL  passes.  ILUS, 
breathless,  waits  till  the  steps  have  gone,  and 
then,  stealthily  as  he  came,  disappears. 

There  is  a  pause.  PRONAX  comes  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, and,  throwing  his  cloak  on  the  ground, 
goes  straight  to  the  trough,  and  begins  to  wash 
his  hands. 

Pronax:  What,   still   awake,   and   reading? 

Those  are  rare  songs, 
To  keep  a  soldier  out  of  his  bed  at  night. 
Ugh  —  Salvius,  sometimes  it's  horrible  — 
He  had  no  time  for  a  word  —  he  walked  those 

walls 


PAWNS 

Under  the  stars  as  a  lover  might  walk  a  garden 
Among  the  moonlit  roses  —  this  cleansing 's 

good  — 
He  was  saying  some  verses,  I  think,  till  death 

broke  in. 

Cold  water's  good  after  this  pitiful  doing, 
And  freshens  the  mind  for  comfortable  sleep. 
Well,  there,  it's  done,  and  sleep's  a  mighty 

curer 
For  all  vexations. 

The  SENTINEL  passes. 
It's  time  that  torch  was  out  — 
I  do  not  need  it,  and  you  should  be  abed  .  .  . 
Salvius  .  .  . 

He  looks  into  the  tent  for  the  first  time. 
What,  sleeping,  and  still  dressed? 
That's  careless,  friend,  and  the  torch  alight 
still  .  .  . 

Salvius  .  .  . 
Salvius,  I  say  .  .  .  gods!  .  .  .  what,  friend  .  .  . 

Salvius,  Salvius  .  .  . 
Dead  ...  it  is  done  ...  it  is  done  .  .  .  there 

is  judgment  made  .  .  . 
Beauty  is  broken  .  .  .  and  there  on  the  Trojan 

wall 

One  too  shall  come  .  .  .  one  too  shall  come  .  .  . 

The  SENTINEL  passes. 
The  curtain  falls 

64 


A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN  WAR 


SCENE  IV 

The  Trojan  wall.  The  body  of  CAPYS  lies  in  the 
starlight  and  silence.  After  a  few  moments 
the  signal  comes  from  ILUS  below.  There  is 
a  pause.  The  signal  is  repeated.  There  is  a 
pause. 

The  curtain  falls 


COPHETUA 
(1911) 


TO      „ 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  PLAY 

KING  COPHETUA 
A  CAPTAIN 
FIVE  WISE  MEN 
THE  KING'S  MOTH 
THE  MAID 
BEGGARS 


COPHETUA 

The  Scene  is  the  Hall  of  the  King's  Palace.  On 
the  left  are  two  thrones^  one  above  the  other, 
with  chairs  below  them. 

At  the  back  of  the  stage  is  a  tall  doorway,  open, 
showing  a  path  to  a  broad  flight  of  steps 
which  leads  up  to  the  Temple.  Two  or  three 
BEGGARS  are  sitting  on  the  steps. 

There  is  an  open  corridor  to  the  right  of  the  stage. 

The  KING'S  MOTHER  is  seated  on  the  lower 
throne.  On  the  chairs  below  are  five  WISE 
MEN  and  a  CAPTAIN.  « 

Captain:  T  is  noon,  and  with  echoing  wing 
The  days  of  a  month  have  sped, 
And  we  stay  to  know  if  the  king 
Will  take  a  queen  to  his  bed. 

The  King's  Mother:  You  have  the  oath  of  a 

king 

That,  be  it  for  weal  or  woe, 
In  the  space  of  a  month  he  would  speak  of  this 

thing, 

He  will  come,  he  will  come  —  you  shall  know. 
First  Wise  Man  (very  old):  He  will  hear.  Not 

in  vain,  not  in  vain 
Shall  his  people  beseech  him  of  this, 
He  will  hear  us,  nor  count  of  the  pain 

71 


PAWNS 

Which  may  bloom  peradventure  to  bliss. 
I  have  stood  at  the  gates  of  the  kings, 
His  fathers,  by  year  and  by  year, 
They  failed  not  to  grant  us  the  things 
That  were  shaped  in  our  prayers.  He  will  hear. 

Second  Wise  Man:  He  is  haughty  and  fiery 

proud, 

A  spirit  not  easy  to  tame, 
He  will  face  us  unbroken,  unbowed, 
And  scorn  us  and  put  us  to  shame. 

Third  Wise  Man:  He  is  King,  and  howbeit 

he  turns 

To  the  right  or  the  left  it  is  well, 
If  he  hearkens  our  crying  or  spurns, 
He  is  King.  It  is  well,  it  is  well. 

Fourth  Wise  Man   (blind}:  Since  the  day 

when  God  shattered  my  sight 
I  fear  whatso  things  may  befall, 
Who  shall  know  if  he  answer  aright? 
Who  shall  say  if  of  wisdom  our  call? 

Fifth  Wise  Man:  I  wait  for  his  word  unafraid. 
The  ways  of  the  world  are  set  out 
By  God's  will;  shall  we  tremble  dismayed 
However  this  thing  come  about? 

Captain:  By  the  might  of  the  spear,  he  shall 

speak 

As  we  bid  him  to  speak,  or  his  crown 
Shall  be  broken  —  what,  are  we  so  meek 
That  we  bow  if  a  king  should  but  frown  ? 

72 


COPHETUA 

King's  Mother:  I  fear  him.  My  son,  should 

you  be 

Too  stubborn,  how  then  should  I  set 
Any  peace  in  my  heart  or  go  free 
Of  a  fear  that  I  might  not  forget  ? 
How  then,  with  a  sword  set  between 
Your  crown  and  the  men  of  the  land, 
Should  the  pride  in  my  heart  keep  clean 
For  a  son  who  held  hate  by  the  hand  ? 

Enter,  from  the  corridor,  KING  CO- 
PHETUA. They  all  rise  as  he  goes 
up  to  his  throne.  As  he  takes  his 
place  he  motions  them  to  sit. 
Cophetua:  I  have  come.  As  a  slave  ye  have 

called  me. 

As  a  dog  to  his  masters  I  come. 
With  the  sting  of  your  tongues  ye  have  galled 

me  — 

Do  you  bid  me  to  speak  or  be  dumb? 
O  my  masters,  your  King  is  before  you, 
A  plaything,  a  chattel,  a  fool,  — 
Cry  shame  on  the  mothers  who  bore  you 
If  you  bend  not  his  will  to  your  rule. 
Shall  a  king  in  his  folly  be  daring 
To  speak  as  he  would,  to  be  wise 
As  he  knows  in  his  heart,  and  set  flaring 
His  insolent  flame  to  the  skies  ? 
Shall  a  king  give  a  thought  to  his  vision 
When  his  masters  forbid  him,  and  frown? 

73 


PAWNS 

Throw  your  dust  in  his  teeth,  and  derision 
Pluck  out  all  the  gems  of  his  crown! 

Second  Wise  Man:  He  is  haughty  and  fiery 

proud, 
A  spirit  not  easy  to  tame. 

Fourth  Wise  Man:  There  is  fear  in  my  heart, 

and  a  cloud 
On  my  soul. 

First  Wise  Man:  O  my  King,  when  they 

came, 

The  people,  to  speak  with  the  kings 
Long  ago  they  were  heard. 

Third  Wise  Man:  Let  him  speak, 

He  is  King,  and  a  holiness  clings 
To  the  words  of  a  king. 

Fifth  Wise  Man:  We  are  weak, 

We  are  creatures  of  God,  an4  His  will 
Is  over  us  all;  He  alone 
Is  mighty  to  save  and  to  spill. 
King's  Mother:  A  sword  on  the  steps  of  the 

throne 
Is  lying,  and  blood  on  the  blade. 

Captain:   Enough!   Shall   we   chaffer   with 

speech 

As  men  in  a  market  dismayed, 
Shall  we  take  not  the  thing  we  may  reach 
With  little  of  toil? 

For  a  year 
Has  the  voice  of  the  men  of  the  land 

74 


COPHETUA 

Cried  out  for  a  king  to  hear 
Of  his  grace.  For  an  answer  we  stand. 
It  is  little  enough  that  we  pray, 
But  here,  in  the  name  of  the  dead, 
I  swear  you  shall  hearken  to-day  — 
Will  you  take  a  queen  to  your  bed  ? 

Cophetua:  It  is  well.  I  am  bidden  to  speak, 
You  are  gracious  to  grant  me  this  thing. 
You  are  strong  and  you  bear  with  the  weak, 
You  will  loosen  the  tongue  of  a  king. 

Second  Wise  Man:  He  is  haughty  and  fiery 
proud. 

Captain:  No  more.  There  are  rumours  that  go 
In  the  streets  — 

Cophetua:  Unbroken,  unbowed, 

I  give  you  your  answer  —  I  know 
Of  the  rumours  and  threatening  spears, 
I  know  of  the  sword  in  the  night, 
But  nothing  of  pitiful  fears. 
I  will  answer,  —  and  hear  me  aright, — 
I  will  not  take  a  queen  to  my  bed, 
Though  the  world  should  clamour  and  cry, 
Till  my  will  is  so  shaped.  It  is  said. 
You  may  go  —  I  have  spoken  it,  I. 

For  a  moment  there  is  silence.  Then 
mere  assertion  gives  place  to  reason- 
ing. 

First  Wise  Man:  Who  shall  be  king  in  the  end? 
When  you  are  fallen  to  sleep, 

75 


PAWNS 

To  whom  shall  our  children  look  to  keep 
Peace  between  friend  and  friend  ? 

Cophetua:  Your  children  shall  carve  a  way 
To  peace  with  the  might  of  their  hands. 
Shall  they  bear  to  their  doors  the  fruit  of  the 

lands 

Because,  on  a  far-off  day, 
A  king  of  their  fathers  fell 
And  sold  the  gates  of  his  soul 
To  the  rabble  ranks  for  a  pitiful  dole, 
And  married  his  love  to  hell? 

Second  Wise  Man:  You  are  haughty  and 

fiery  proud. 

Cophetua:  The  meanest  man  of  you  all 
May  mate  where  he  would.  Shall  a  king  then 

fall 

And  tremble  before  you,  cowed, 
And  be  humbled  and  shorn  of  fame, 
Be  called  a  braggart,  a  knave, 
That  he  dares  no  less  than  a  thrall  to  save 
The  shrine  of  his  heart  from  shame? 

Third  Wise  Man:  You  are  King,  and  I  dare 

not  cross 

My  will  with  a  crowned  king's, 
But  your  will  so  set  to  your  people  brings 
Peril  of  branded  loss. 
There  are  kingdoms  over  the  seas,  ^ 
And  kingdoms  near  to  your  gates, 
Whose  daughters  are  moulded  for  comely  mates, 

76 


COPHETUA 

And  will  you  not  choose  of  these, 
And  gather  about  your  throne 
A  safety  fashioned  of  might? 

Cophetua:  I  will  break  my  body  to  dust  in 

fight, 

I  am  careless  of  blood  and  bone, 
I  will  forfeit  my  latest  breath, 
I  will  harry  the  stranger  lords, 
I  will  face  unfriended  the  outland  hordes, 
I  will  kiss  the  lips  of  death, 
I  will  keep  no  secret  store 
Of  peace  in  my  house,  I  will  spare 
No  strength  in  what  things  a  man  may  dare 
Or  men  have  dared  before; 
But  the  doors  of  my  love  shall  be 
Guarded  and  unbetrayed, 
And  reckoning  there  shall  be  surely  made 
'Twixt  none  but  my  God  and  me. 

Fourth  Wise  Man:  I  fear  the  striving  of  men 
And  the  challenge  of  boasting  lips. 

Cophetua:  Old  man,  you  are  nigh   to  your 

day's  eclipse. 

Would  you  have  in  your  fancy,  when 
You  pass  away  to  the  night, 
The  strands  of  a  troubled  tale 
Of  a  high  king  setting  his  love  for  sale  ? 

Fourth  Wise  Man  (bewildered  merely):  The 
Lord  hath  shattered  my  sight. 

Fifth  Wise  Man:  Be  it  as  you  have  said. 

77 


PAWNS, 

God  watches. 

Cophetua:      He  watches  well. 
I  have  strayed  too  near  to  the  gates  of  hell, 
But  He  watched  me,  and  His  hand  led. 

Captain:  You  blacken  His  name.  We  are 

proud, 

We  people,  aye,  proud  as  a  king; 
You  shall  rue  the  day  when  you  chose  to  fling 
Your  scorn  as  pence  to  the  crowd. 
We  will  that  a  queen  should  sit 
On  the  king's  right  hand,  and  still 
We  stand  as  men  for  the  fruits  of  our  will, 
Nor  abate  one  word  of  it. 

King's  Mother:  My  son,  O  my  son,  be  not 
Too  stubborn  —  I  fear  the  end, 
I  fear  the  day  that  no  days  may  mend, 
And  the  happening  unforgot. 
Is  it  little,  my  son,  you  lose? 
There  are  women  with  faces  fair, 
And  maddening  limbs  and  shining  hair, 
And  goodly  women  to  choose; 
Women  whose  kisses  would  fire 
Your  lips  and  quicken  your  blood, 
And  set  a  tumult,  a  golden  flood 
In  your  soul,  and  a  new  desire 
In  the  season  of  scents  and  stars, 
And  a  sweeter  song  in  the  day  — 

Cophetua:  My  mother,  you  have  no  word  to 
say 

78 


COPHETUA 

Of  worth.  Would  you  set  in  bars 

The  sacred  spirit  of  me? 

No,  mother,  you  know  I  speak 

As  a  man  should  speak,  but  your  will  is  weak 

For  fear  of  the  things  to  be. 

You  are  true,  my  mother,  you  bring 

A  deep  wise  love  to  the  child,  — 

Let  your  love  be  stainless,  and  undefiled 

By  craven  fears  for  the  king. 

Captain:  She  is  wise  of  her  fear  — 
Cophetua:  Be  still  — 

You  are  rude,  sir,  sharpen  your  tongue 

On  the  steps  of  a  throne  whose  king  is  sung 

For  a  poor  unkingly  will. 

I  have  given  my  answer;  to  each 

As  he  spake  I  have  answered  again. 

Do  you  hold  me  a  gibbering  clod    among 
men, 

To  waver  and  juggle  with  speech? 

He  moves  from  the  throne  to  the  open 
doorway  at  the  back. 

For  my  people,  I  know  them  aright, 

They  will  hear  me,  they  hold  not  in  scorn 

A  man  whose  flame  without  fear  is  borne, 

With  the  wings  of  the  wind  in  flight. 

I  will  tell  them.  I  wait  the  call 

Of  my  soul  and  none  else  beside; 

I  will  bring  to  the  hall  of  their  kings  a  bride 

When  my  choice  unbidden  fall. 

79 


PAWNS 

During  the  foregoing  speeches  other 
BEGGARS  have  joined  those  sitting  on 
the  steps.  Among  them  is  a  MAID.  As 
the  KING  now  goes  out  of  the  Hall 
and  up  the  steps  to  the  Temple,  the 
BEGGARS  hold  out  their  hands  for 
alms.  The  KING  gives.  The  MAID, 
who  is  seated  on  an  upper  step  alone, 
by  the  door  of  the  Temple,  asks  noth- 
ing. The  KING  pauses  for  a  moment 
to  look  at  her;  she  touches  his  cloak 
with  her  hand,  and  lifts  it  to  her  lips. 
He  passes  into  the  Temple. 
Second  Wise  Man:  He  has  gone.  He  is  fiery 

proud. 
Third  Wise  Man:  He  is  King.  It  is  well,  it  is 

well. 
fourth  Wise  Man:  There  is  fear  on  my  heart, 

and  a  cloud. 
King's  Mother:  There  is  building  a  story  to 

tell  — 
First  Wise  Man:  He  leaves  the  clear  ways 

that  are  worn. 
Fifth  Wise  Man:  'T  is  the  purpose  of  God  — 

we  must  bend. 
Captain:  Not  in  vain  shall  he  mock  us  and 

scorn. 

King's  Mother:  A  story  —  who  knows  of  the 
end? 

80 


COPHETUA 

Second  Wise  Man:  This  day  is  fulfilled  my 

foretelling. 
Third  Wise  Man:  The  stars  are  in  counsel 

with  kings. 
Fourth  Wise  Man:  There  is  gloom  in  the 

house  of  our  dwelling. 
Fifth  Wise  Man:  To  God  be  the  shaping  of 

things. 
First  Wise  Man:  The  thread  of  the  years 

now  is  broken. 

Captain:  To  the  edge  of  his  sword  be  the  shame. 
King's  Mother:  What  word  of  this  day  will 

be  spoken? 
What  song  will  be  sung  of  our  fame? 

The  KING  comes  through  the  Temple 
doors.  The  BEGGARS,  as  before,  hold 
out  their  hands;  the  MAID  alone  asks 
nothing.  COPHETUA  offers  her  a  bag 
of  gold,  which  she  takes;  she  rises  and 
stands  with  the  KING  at  the  top  of  the 
steps;  she  pours  the  gold  from  the  bag 
down  the  steps,  and  the  BEGGARS  col- 
lect the  scattered  coins.  She  kisses  the 
bag,  and  ties  it  in  her  girdle.  The 
KING  stands  looking  at  her  for  a 
moment,  then  comes  down  to  the  Hall; 
he  stands  by  the  open  doors. 
Cophetua:  I  knelt  before  God's  altar  rail, 
And  something  leapt  within  my  brain; 

8l 


PAWNS 

God's  mother  smiled;  her  beauty  pale 
Was  over  me;  and  then  again 
I  heard  my  people  crying  out, 
And  woven  in  the  cries  of  them 
I  heard  a  kiss  that  clung  about 
The  colours  of  my  raiment's  hem. 

My  prayers  went  up  with  feathered  speed, 
But  still  I  saw  the  face  of  one 
Who  said  no  word  of  all  her  need 
Among  the  beggars  in  the  sun, 
Of  one  who  sought  no  little  dole 
But  gave  great  tribute  to  her  King, 
And  something  fiery  in  my  soul 
Stirred  with  the  passion  of  the  spring. 

And  still  I  heard  my  people  cry, 

"A  queen!  a  queen!  we  seek  a  queen!" 

No  pride  was  on  my  lips,  and  I 

Told  God  what  thing  I  then  had  seen, 

What  rumour  through  my  blood  was  sent 

As  I  passed  through  His  holy  gate, 

And  surely  up  to  God  they  went  — 

My  little  secret  words  of  fate. 

Out  of  God's  house  I  came.  She  stood 
Before  me.  She  had  nought  to  bring 
Of  land  or  warrant  counted  good 
To  fire  the  temper  of  a  king, 

82 


COPHETUA 

Only  a  treasure  in  her  eyes 
Of  pure  and  consecrated  days, 
And  presage  that  her  soul  was  wise 
Of  travel  in  the  starry  ways. 

You  counselled  me.  I  heard  your  words, 

Your  threats  I  heard,  your  cunning  speech, 

Your  clamouring  of  sheathless  swords, 

But  citadelled  beyond  the  reach 

Of  all  these  things  my  heart  was  free; 

Yet  then  a  secret  word  was  said 

In  the  blue  air.  This  thing  shall  be  — 

A  queen  is  coming  to  my  bed. 

Captain:  The  child  of  a  beggar! 

Second  Wise  Man:  You  dare 

Lift  up  this  shame  in  your  land  ? 

First  Wise  Man:  You  speak  not  in  wisdom 
—  beware. 

Fourth  Wise  Man:  God  give  me  to  under- 
stand. 

King's  Mother:  My  son,  O  my  son,  but  wait 
A  little  —  how  should  this  be  — 
A  son  of  proud  old  kings  to  mate 
With  a  girl  base-born? 

Fourth  Wise  Man:        Ah,  me! 

Cophetua:  How?  Would  ye  drive  me  to  and 

fro 
As  straw  beneath  the  goodman's  flail? 

83 


God's  angels  laugh,  I  think,  to  know 
How  much  a  king's  word  may  avail. 
I  stand,  road-girt,  before  a  sweet 
New  land  of  holy  joys  to-day, 
And  she  alone  has  led  my  feet, 
And  she  alone  shall  say  me  nay. 

"Base-born,"  you  cry  —  "a  beggar's  child." 
So  be  it.  Yet  there  haply  ran 
Some  strain  of  passion  undefiled 
When  in  the  twilight  some  tall  man 
Bore  homeward  to  his  bridal  bed 
Of  curling  leaves  beneath  the  sky 
A  clear-limbed  girl  whose  beauty  led 
Love  laughing  in  captivity. 

You  bid  me  mate.  And  shall  it  be 

To  make  adultery  a  thing 

Honoured  from  sea  to  shining  sea 

For  that  the  sinner  is  a  king? 

My  blood  is  kingly?  It  shall  take 

A  strain  of  vagrant  wind  and  sun. 

I,  born  a  king,  henceforth  will  make 

The  people  and  the  sceptre  one. 

He  walks  up  the  steps  to  the  MAID;  he 
stands  speaking  to   her,   and  then 
leads  her  down  into  the  Hall. 
The  Maid:  It  seemed  a  very  little  thing 

That  you  should  come  and  lead  me  down 

84 


COPHETUA 

Here  to  your  throne.  You  are  a  king, 
There  is  a  splendour  on  your  crown, 
Yet  you  were  born  of  changing  dust 
Even  as  I,  and  when  you  spoke 
That  word  to  me,  the  great  God  thrust    • 
His  arm  out  and  the^barrier  broke, 
And  I  was  maid  and  you  were  man, 
Built  of  one  flesh;  it  was  as  though 
No  word  had  been  since  time  began 
Of  kings  and  beggars. 

Cophetua:  And  a  low 

Sweet  sound  of  music  fell  about 
My  senses,  as  of  beating  wings 
Of  loves  that  sway  the  world  without 
A  thought  of  beggars  or  of  kings. 

The  Maid:  You  are  king,  and  kings  are  great, 
Yet,  though  I  'Id  kneel  before  a  throne, 
My  heart  would  be  inviolate  — 
No  king  should  claim  it  for  his  own; 
I  worship  kingly  men,  I  bow 
Before  the  king's  ancestral  might, 
Yet  all  these  things  are  nought,  and  now 
No  king  is  standing  in  my  sight. 
I  see  a  man  who  spoke  to  me 
As  a  man  should  speak,  loving  well. 

Cophetua:  I  see  a  queen  whose  lips  might  be 
Fashioned  great  histories  to  tell. 

The  Maid:  I  see  a  man  who  set  aflame 
My  womanhood  and  made  it  whole. 

85 


PAWNS 

Cophetua:  I  see  a  holy  queen  who  came 
As  a  great  song  into  my  soul. 

The  Maid:  I  saw  an  eagle  in  the  air  — 
Cophetua:    The    eagle    clove    the    cloudy 

ways  — 
The  Maid:  Strong-winged  he  was,  and  proud 

and  fair  — 

Cophetua:  And  there  he  met  the  golden  rays 
Hidden  to  earth  — 

The  Maid:  And  far  and  far 

He  sped  with  swift  and  level  flight, 

Cophetua:  And  wrung  the  glory  of  a  star 
Out  of  the  garners  of  the  night. 

First  Wise  Man:  Great  queens  might  take 

her  by  the  hand, 
Third  Wise  Man:  Great  kings  might  kiss  her 

on  the  lips, 
Fifth  Wise  Man:  God V  laughter  now  is  on 

the  land, 
Fourth  Wise  Man:  Light  trembles  through 

my  day's  eclipse, 
Second  Wise  Man:  The  king  establishes  his 

pride, 

Captain:  I  kneel  to  her,  no  threat  is  now 
Upon  my  tongue,  she  is  a  bride 
To  whom  a  king's  folk  well  may  bow. 

King's  Mother:  My  child,  what  way  the 

King  may  choose 
Is  well;  the  soul  of  you  is  wise, 

'     86 


COPHETUA 

And  a  queen's  crown  will  no  way  lose 
Its  splendour  set  above  your  eyes; 
The  word  is  spoken,  and  aloud 
Along  the  day  as  fire  it  runs, 
And  you  shall  bear  your  King  a  proud 
And  comely  line  of  kingly  sons. 

The  Maid:  Not  dowered  as  a  queen  might  be 
Who  sold  herself  you  see  me  here, 
Yet  something  do  I  bring  for  fee, 
Good  counsel,  comfortable  cheer, 
A  body  undefiled,  a  soul 
Not  alien  before  the  Lord, 
A  will  unbent,  a  purpose  whole, 
A  passion  shining  as  a  sword. 

To  you  in  humble-wise,  my  King, 
With  nought  of  fear  or  servile  greed, 
My  sacred  love  unsoiled  I  bring, 
My  service,  and  my  woman's  need. 
A  story  of  some  careful  days 
Spent  in  a  cloister  no  man  knows, 
Some  peace  of  silent  lilied  ways, 
Some  beauty  of  the  curling  rose. 

The  KING  leads  her  up  to  the  throne. 

They  stand  one  on  each  side  of  it. 
Cophetua  (to  the  people) :  Am  I  the  less  a  king 

that  here 

I  choose  as  might  a  man  uncrowned, 
Or  should  you  hold  a  queen  more  dear 

8? 


PAWNS 

For  armed  men  or  tribute  ground  ? 
If  so  it  be,  the  word  be  said, 
And  we  will  pass  from  out  your  land, 
And  sleep  upon  a  stranger  bed 
And  prosper  by  a  stranger  hand. 

First  Wise  Man:  She  too  shall  pass  where 

queens  have  trod, 
Third  Wise  Man:  You,  being  King,  have 

chosen  well, 
Fifth  Wise  Man:  Not  niggard  is  the  hand  of 

God, 
Fourth  Wise  Man:  No  veiled  fear  is  now  to 

tell, 
Second  Wise  Man:  Now  beautiful  is  all  your 

pride, 
Captain:  My  sword  shall  bring  you  peace 

alone, 

King's  Mother:  My  trouble  now  is  purified, 
And  love  is  laughing  from  a  throne. 

Cophetua:  In  the  years  far  away,  far  away, 
Our  love  shall  be  told  as  a  song. 

The  Maid:  Many  men  shall  remember,  and 

say  — 

They  kept  their  love  guarded  from  wrong. 
Cophetua:  Your  beauty  shall  be  as  a  tale 
For  the  firing  of  hearts  to  the  end. 

The  Maid:  And  never  the  story  shall  fail 
Of  a  king  who  was  mighty  to  lend 
A  glory  to  love  in  his  land. 

88 


COPHETUA 

Cophetua:  And  the  children  of  men  unbegot 
Shall  listen,  and  understand 
The  tale  of  a  love  unforgot. 
Our  kiss  shall  be  set  on  the  crest 
Of  the  travelling  years,  and  be  borne 
As  a  torch  from  the  east  to  the  west, 
Till  the  sinews  of  love  be  outworn. 


CURTAIN 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 
THE  STORM 

was  first  produced  at  the  Birmingham  Reper- 
tory Theatre,  on  Saturday,  May  8th,  1915, 
under  the  direction  of  the  author,  with  the  fol- 
lowing cast: 

Alice  ....     Cecily  Byrne 
Joan  ....     Betty  Pinchard 
Sarah          .         .         .     Margaret  Chatwin 
An  Old  Man       .        .     W.  Ribton  Haines 
A  Young  Stranger       .    E.  Ion  Swinley 

At  the  Stratford-upon-Avon  Memorial 
Theatre,  on  August  26th,  1915,  Alice  was 
played  by  Mary  Merrall,  and  on  the  play's  re- 
vival at  the  Birmingham  Repertory  Theatre, 
on  March  i8th,  1916,  the  cast  was: 

Alice  ....     Mona  Limerick 
Joan  ....     Betty  Pinchard 
Sarah          .         .         .     Margaret  Chatwin 
An  Old  Man       .         .     William  J.  Rea 
A  Young  Stranger       .     Scott  Sunderland 

THE  GOD  OF  QUIET 

was  first  produced  at  the  Birmingham  Reper- 
tory Theatre,  on  Saturday,  October  7th,  1916, 

93 


APPENDIX 

under  the  direction  of  the  author,  with  the 
following  cast: 

A  Young  Beggar1  .  Joseph  A.  Dodd 

An  Old  Beggar  .  .  W.  Brunton 

A  Citizen    .  .  .  William  J.  Rea 

A  Soldier    .  .  .  William  Armstrong 

First  King  .  .  .  Felix  Aylmer 

A  Herald    .  .  .  Frank  Moore 

Second  King  .  .  Frank  D.  Clewlow 

The  God     .  .  .  Noel  Shammon 

The  stage  setting  and  the  costumes  were  de- 
signed by  Arthur  J.  Gaskin. 

X  =  0;  A  NIGHT  OF  THE  TROJAN 
WAR 

was  first  produced  at  the  Birmingham  Reper- 
tory Theatre,  on  Saturday,  April  I4th,  1917, 
under  the  direction  of  the  author,  with  the 
following  cast: 

Pronax       .        .        .  Felix  Aylmer 

Salvius        .         .         .  Nicholas  Bly 

Ilus    ....  Joseph  A.  Dodd 

Capys         .         .         .  William  J.  Rea 

A  Greek  Sentinel         .  Alfred  J.  Brooks 

A  Greek  Servant  .  Richard  Wayne 

The  setting  was  devised  by  Frank  D.  Clew- 
low. 

94 


COPHETUA 

was  first  performed  by  The  Pilgrim  Players, 
in  Birmingham,  on  November  i8th,  1911,  the 
actors  being  unnamed,  and  then  at  the  Bir- 
mingham Repertory  Theatre  on  October  27th, 
1917,  under  the  direction  of  the  author,  with 
the  following  cast: 

Cophetua    .        .  .  William  J.  Rea 

Captain      .         .  .  Frank  Moore 

First  Wise  Man  .  .  Noel  Shammon 

Second  Wise  Man  .  Frank  D.  Clewlow 

Third  Wise  Man  .  Alfred  J.  Brooks 

Fourth  Wise  Man  .  William  Bache 

Fifth  Wise  Man  .  .  Joseph  A.  Dodd 

King's  Mother    .  .  Margaret  Chatwin 

The  Maid  .         .  .  Dorothy  Green 

The  setting  was  devised  by  Frank  D.  Clewlow. 


press 

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U    .    S    .    A 


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